RITRATTI ITALIANI... PORTRAITS OF ITALY. THESE ARE MY LITTLE STORIES AND THOUGHTS, WRITTEN IN BOTH ENGLISH AND ITALIAN, OF THE TIMES I'VE SPENT NELLA BELLA ITALIA.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Non Ho Avuto il Tempo (I Haven't Had the Time)

Giampiero is an artist. He creates art, such as beautiful, dreamy prints of old postcards superimposed with mysterious messages. He sells art, in Wunder Kammer, his shop on Isola Bella. There, in a 500-year old building that long-ago housed craftsmen and workmen, he sells items that recreate their old techniques. And he organizes art shows. This is what he was working on when I met him. He had transformed an old boathouse into a small gallery showcasing the work of a few specially chosen modern artists. The walls and floor of the boathouse are barren concrete; the ceiling is made of old wooden beams to which a few modern lights have been attached. There is a distinct lack of color. It is as if to be in a black and white photograph. In the center of the floor is one item. It is a ruin of a small wooden rowboat. It rests askew on some giant wooden blocks that serve as a stand for it, but it still gives the impression of having been washed up to that very spot eons ago by a long-receded wave and having remained undisturbed there ever since. Its tones are so close to that of the concrete surrounding it that it seems almost camouflaged. The peripheral walls of the building hold various works between the concrete structural supports. Each piece is unique and thought-provoking, yet it is the total space, viewed as a whole, that is more powerful than any one individual piece.

I have a favorite work. It spoke to me, affected me, and I cannot stop thinking of it. It is a photographic portrait of Giampiero himself, large like the size of a poster. In the black and white photo the artist is seated in a chair with his hands folded in his lap. He gazes directly at the camera, at me, when I viewed the portrait. There are a few words scribbled across the photo, as if he had taken a marker and written them himself. They say, “Non ho Avuto il Tempo;” I haven’t had the time.

The time for what? The mystery makes me crazy. Directly in front of the portrait, maybe four meters away, is a bust of a man on a pedestal. They look at each other, locked in some sort of eternal staring contest. I think the bust-man has asked Giampiero whether or not he has done something, but Giampiero defiantly, yet calmly, tells him he hasn’t had the time.

Non ho avuto il tempo. I think on this often. Do I have the time? Would I like to say that I haven’t had the time? I’d like to say that I haven’t had the time to be angry, to have regrets, to have fear. I don’t want to have the time to dwell on old grudges, to think negative thoughts, or to worry too much about what others may think. These thoughts will keep me just as stuck in one place as that rowboat is, gathering dust, as it does.

But mostly, I don’t want to have to say that I haven’t had the time. Not if it means that I haven’t had the time to do the things that make me happy, or to make someone else happy. Not if it means I’ve been too busy to reach for my dreams, or to learn, to laugh, to take chances, to love, to actually live. Because, in reality, there is so little time. And I don’t intend to waste not even one precious moment of it.

About Me

Life is strange... How else can you explain how a bottle of red table wine could set into motion a series of wonderful events that have brought me here. Read my stories, in English or Italian, as you wish, come vuoi, and enjoy them. Grazie.